At
night,
There's no sign of her young mate, yet!
The shaking darkness of the beyond river,
is a sleepy bush of an old thorn.
wind, holding its moon lantern,
is asking the tired narcissus knowing
butterfly,
about leopard's footprints.

Hey, you,
The northern grasslands deer,do
sleep!
Ordibehesht cattle's, now
have reached to the snow-covered
mountainsides
of marjoram and rhubarb!

.

.

No
memory remains,
dead songs are dissipated,
next songs belong to whom never came
What a kind glance you have on me,
O' my thirty years old lady born in
Ordibehesht.
Is your couple on journey?

.

.

Tonight,
there's no song of ringdove,
nor winds pass through bamboo valley.
I'm not me.
I wish these breathless crickets would sleep,
too.

.

.

It's
Farvardin.
thoughtless doves have even noticed it.
But wind will blow the nests away.

It's no matter

It's Farvardin,
wild violets have even noticed it,
but wind will blow away,
the lazy sunshine of the mountainside.
It's no matter.

It's Farvardin,grits
beside the river have even noticed it,
but wind will blow the twilights of the dawn
away.
It's no matter!
That's all right!
So when will our traveled spring come back?
no matter indeed!?

.

.

A
nightin
the most northern part of the sky,
I saw a man's face,
who was passing through the flammable clouds,
like Siavosh,
he had neither a horse,
nor he'd come from a legend dream,
he'd just gone to get two fresh breads,
and a bottle of milk,
The first day passed,
he didn't come back,
his wife said:
"he's gone on a trip."
his comrades said:
"he's certainly gone somewhere,
maybe to a shady place or to a dream of a
book!"
The third day passed,
he didn't come back.
we heard other news.
in the fourth day,

it was raining hard.
it was in the fifth day of the second week of
Azar
in the most northern part of the sky,
some saw the face of the most handsome poets
in the world.
all are like the face of a man,
who had passed through the flammable clouds
with no horse and no legend.